


Appeals on High

by fireweed15



Category: King Falls AM (Podcast)
Genre: Captivity, F/M, Gen, Jewish Character, Trans Female Character, post episode 25
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 01:28:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15183725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireweed15/pseuds/fireweed15
Summary: [Post Episode 25 / First Sammiversary] Of all the things that Ben Arnold has done and seen in his life, being here and doing this was perhaps the hardest.





	Appeals on High

The sun was warm on his shoulders, and it was shaping up to be a wonderful spring day. If Ben wasn't still in shock, he was certain he'd be insulted by that.

Normally, he'd be home by now, drawing blackout curtains and heading off to bed. Instead, he squinted down at an address, texted to him by Emily's mother, then up at the numbers on the house. They matched.

Even if he hesitated to admit it, he'd wondered, fantasized at times, what walking up to Emily's door would be like, what her house looked like, but there were two huge, elephant in the room sized differences between those daydreams and this reality—one, Emily was always present, and two… Ugh, he couldn't get the _sound_ of it out of his head.

_You don't_ have _to be here, y'know,_ a small, rational voice hissed in his ear, and technically speaking that was accurate. He'd never _agreed_ to anything requested in Mrs. Potter's string of texts. He was here on his own—because Emily was his friend, because she would have done the same thing for him, because he loved her dearly, because (and he tried so much not to think this last one) that it was his—

Better to shelve that one for another day. He stood on the porch and, following the texts' instructions, looked under a deck chair. As promised, there was a small hibachi, and when he opened it up… bingo, spare house keys.

He stood, considering them. Just two keys with cheap colored plastic caps, on a keychain with a metal charm that was stamped _Librarians: The Original Search Engine_. Had the situation not been so dire, and had he not been so heartsick, he would have found the same humor in it that Emily no doubt had.

He slid one into the lock and twisted it, the front door swinging open with ease, and he stepped inside. It felt like someone's home—jackets and hats hung on the wall above a wicker basket of shoes, mail was stacked on a low table, waiting to be opened. Moving carefully, as if he was afraid of disturbing the house itself, Ben toed out of his shoes and set them next to the door.

The living room was off to his right, kitchen and dining room to the left, and judging by the end of a hall he could see, his best guess was that was where he'd find her bedroom and bathroom, and probably a laundry room. His hands found their way into his jacket pockets, one of them finding his phone, and he looked down at the green text bubbles—instructions. Nice, grounding instructions. _Water the plants_ , and immediately below that were instructions for feeding—

A bump against his leg, follow by a soft but insistent _mmrow_. Ben glanced down— Emily's cat. "Hey." He knelt, holding out his hand for the cat to sniff and rub against in turn. He wanted to say more, explain what happened—hell, he felt compelled to fucking apologize to the damn thing, but nothing more came out. Instead, his hand found its way to the cat's name tag— _Austen._

"Alright—come on, buddy." He stood, making his way to the kitchen. "Breakfast… brunch… whatever it is for you."

The cat followed, vocalizing all the way. Ben easily found the food and water dishes (opposite ends of the kitchen), and he refilled both. As he rinsed and refilled the latter, he caught sight of the dishes in her sink, all from baking a cake that was sitting, undelivered, in her passenger seat. Moving on autopilot, he filled the sink with soapy water and rolled up his sleeves. The water scalded, but he grit his teeth and pushed through the discomfort to wash, dry and put away the dishes. Emily deserved to come back to clean kitchen—it had nothing to do with the fact that seeing them made him feel sick to his stomach. No ma'am.

He seized a watering can from the windowsill above the sink, taking comfort in the weight that came from it being full. He moved slowly from room to room, trying to give each plant the attention that Emily would have. Did she talk to her plants? Would she ever be able to talk to her plants again?

The thought came unbidden into his thoughts and stuck there. Tears pricked at the backs of his eyes, then overwhelmed him completely. He swiped angrily at them—he did _not_ have the right to cry right now! Not when Emily was… _gone_ , taken God only knew where by the rainbow lights and going through God only knew what—

_Fuck—_! He set the watering can on the coffee table with a _thunk_ and stalked through the house and into the bathroom. Moving blindly, he wrenched the cold water on and slapped some of it on his face. It helped, but just barely.

He tugged a hand towel from the rack and dried his face. The man looking back at him was splotchy-faced, haggard—he looked at least ten years older. _Jack-in-the-Box-Jesus…_ He sighed heavily, his gaze falling from the mirror to the countertop, and subsequently on to Emily's makeup—a rack of brushes and sponges, and delicate wicker baskets of tubes and bottles and jars. Tucked between the brushes and the mirror was a stapled booklet, well thumbed and stained with makeup along the edges. The title, "Nineteen Insanely Useful Makeup Tips For Trans Women," was just visible.

Whatever tips and tricks were in that booklet were working for her—her makeup was always perfect. Understated, classy, feminine—just like Emily herself. It was a compliment Ben had always tried to pay her, doubly so on days when he could sense she'd presented herself with anything less than one hundred percent confidence, when she'd admitted in soft, almost shameful whispers that she felt like a fraud.

His fingers curled around the edge of the counter, his knuckles paling. _God_ what he wouldn't give to… hell, he wouldn't wish the dysphoria on her, but what he wouldn't give to reassure her again, to talk to her—just to _see her_ again…!

"May it be Your will, God, our God and the God of our fathers, that You should lead us in peace—" The words came out before he could stop them, a frantic, fervent appeal to the highest power he could think of. "Save… Save Emily from every enemy and ambush, from robbers and wild beasts on the trip, and from all kinds of punishments that rage and come to the world…"

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Round 9 of the Hurt / Comfort Bingo - Captivity
> 
> My knowledge of Judaism is limited; if I got something wrong please let me know so I can fix it!


End file.
